


Something Softer

by something_safe



Series: Hellish Instruments [3]
Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Curtain Fic, Domestic, First Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Post-Fall, Post-TWOTL, murder fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 04:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13182576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/something_safe
Summary: Sequestered away in their new home in Northern Finland, Hannibal and Will share their memories, traditions, and gifts for their  first Christmas together.Note: This was written for the Hannibal Holiday gift exchange! I hope my giftee likes it! It fits nicely with my usual post-fall universe where these two end up in all my fic, but it can be read as a standalone. It is very fluffy but, like most of my stuff, has a slightly sombre tone too.





	Something Softer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reallymisscoffee on tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=reallymisscoffee+on+tumblr).



> Whatever you celebrate, I hope you all had a very Happy Holidays! This work reflects briefly on some European Christmas traditions but is generally quite a liberal, modern interpretation. 
> 
> Thanks to the creators of the Hannigram Holiday Exchange for all their hard work, as always!

Will watches the snow fall in fat flakes, gaze faraway. Behind him, Hannibal slices vegetables at the kitchen counter, the knife light and comfortable in his hand. There's a fire roaring in the grate of the adjoining living room, the cool winter light made cosy in the glow.

“It’s Christmas soon,” Will murmurs, voice husky from disuse, stilted with the tension of his injured jaw.

“So it is. Did you celebrate it often?”

 When he turns, Hannibal can see the angry, knotted scar on Will’s cheek, still pink though it’s healing. Will hates having to shave everyday, but Hannibal likes him like this, neat and well-groomed. Now, he looks the way he often does when Hannibal asks him about his past: displeased at having one.

“Not really. We did our best.”

“Your father’s best, Will. You were his responsibility, not the other way round.”

“I guess so.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, I don’t get the impression his best was up to much.”

“My father didn’t neglect me, he just couldn’t do what most fathers could.”

“What was that?”

“Get it together,” Will murmurs.

“Some might argue that was neglect,” Hannibal points out, starting to mince onions into transparent crescent moons.

“Keep arguing it, it wasn’t that. It was complicated.”

“How was it complicated?”

“I didn’t resent him not spending time with me. I liked being alone.”

“That doesn't surprise me.”

“Does anything?”

Hannibal is silent for a moment, contemplating. The stark, blanket white light behind Will lights him up like a cameo.

“Your being here with me surprises me.”

“I thought we were past that.”

“It seems I'm not, I couldn't speak for you on the matter.”

Will is silent this time. He folds his arms, favouring his shoulder subtly. When he looks at Hannibal again, his eyes are unexpectedly warm.

“I'm surprised we’re discussing Christmas, I guess. It's not something I imagined us doing.” He hesitates a second, and then his expression becomes melancholy once more. He goes back to gazing out at the snow.

“You wish Abigail were here,” Hannibal guesses. It's a thought that comes to him often, and at unexpected times, but Will seems to show it with a physical sort of distress that Hannibal has become acutely familiar with.

“Of course.”

“You regret not having been able to give her the holiday season that you never had? That her father took away from her?”

“I regret that you cut her throat whilst having a temper tantrum,” Will snaps, and then he takes a big, shuddering breath to calm himself. He doesn't apologise, or take it back. Hannibal can't say he blames him.

“I regret it too. What I did was… wasteful.”

“I'm not even going to start on what it was, and neither should you.”

“Abigail deserved better,” Hannibal says, making himself think about it as he so rarely does: making himself regret. “You deserved better.”

“We could have been a family,” Will murmurs, lashes flickering as though he's watching phantom Abigails kicking at the snow.

“You and I are a family, aren't we?” Hannibal asks. He fails to keep the meagre note of hurt out of it, and looks down at his board, despairing of his transparency.

Will’s voice is unexpectedly soft when he answers.

“You and I have been to Hell and back together. We’re here now, sharing space and life, I don't think we’ll ever stop that while it's within our control. I'd call that family.”

Hannibal sees him glance at Winston out of the corner of his eye, curled by the fire, paws twitching with chasing dreams.

“We could have been a real family, though, couldn't we?”

“That wasn't ever an option for us, Hannibal,” Will says, voice resigned, “we already know that you can't stand to share me.”

He goes back to his staring, and Hannibal goes back to chopping. Beyond them both, the fire crackles, and Winston softly huffs.

*

When Hannibal comes to bed, Will is already waiting, absorbed in his book as he absentmindedly rubs his sore shoulder with his free hand. He's soft-looking in his sweatshirt and plaid pants, the soft sweep of his eyelashes momentarily catching Hannibal’s attention once more.

“Will,” he murmurs, coming to the bed and proffering a glass, “a night cap.”

Will reaches for it carefully, brows tweaking in surprise.

“Thank you,” he whispers, holding the whisky up under his nose to inhale for a moment before he takes a sip and sighs. “That's nice.”

“I thought it might help you sleep,” Hannibal says, settling down onto his side of the bed, picking up his tablet from the bedside and pulling up an article. Beside him, Will gives him a single, brief smile, and Hannibal knows he's grateful.

“What if one’s not enough?” He whispers. Hannibal smiles now.

“Then I'll get you another.”

A gentle crease of laughter from Will makes the mattress thrum beneath them.

“Thank you, Hannibal. I'm only kidding, I promise.”

“Even so.” Pleased, Hannibal goes back to his tablet. After a few minutes, he is still completely aware of Will’s little smile- Will’s everything, actually.

“You haven't scrolled in ten minutes,” Will points out, eventually. “What's the matter?”

It's not a demand. It sounds relatively gentle. Hannibal sighs.

“I was thinking about our conversation earlier,” he admits. When Will waits, he continues. “I know my words pale in comparison to my actions, but I wanted you to know that if I had foreseen the effect my actions would have had on this part of our life, I never would have- I would have…”

He stalls. Will has turned to him, expression a mixture of pensive and tired.

“You underestimated how much I would grieve Abigail.”

“I underestimated how much I would hate that I did that.”

The silence drinks up the tick of the bedside clock; the wind outside. Will looks considering now, and Hannibal recognises the crease of sadness between his brows.

“I think sometimes that you don't feel remorse for anything you do,” he says, thoughtful, “but this has been eating at you, hasn't it?”

“I generally don’t feel regret, but for this… I'm afraid one day it will consume me entirely, and in turn you.”

“I meant it when I said I forgave you,” Will says, “it just doesn't make it any easier.”

“Is there anything I can do to change it?” Hannibal asks.

Will takes a sip of his whisky, and after a pause he shrugs. “Keep being sorry anyway. Accept my pain. Give me more time. In a way, I understand it. It's why it's so hard to be angry about it. I can still be sad about it, though.”

“Of course. For as long as you want.”

“Thank you for talking to me about it,” Will says, softly, “this can't have been easy for you.”

“I think for you and I to remain together, and for it to be easy, we must exorcise some of our past demons. I am trying to ‘get it together’, as they say.”

Will smiles again. He leans and touches Hannibal’s stomach gently; the scar from a bullet wound that sits beneath his shirt.

“More therapy, Doctor?”

“I think we’re a bit past that.”

They settle down once more. Will drinks his whisky, and another glass that he retrieves for himself, and eventually Hannibal turns the lights off when he sees Will’s book sagging from his eyeline. They pull the covers up, the skylight thick with snow above their bed, a square of soft light in the dark.

“Hannibal?” Will’s voice comes, sleepy and small.

“Yes.”

“Can we do Christmas? Like a family?”

Hannibal reaches out and finds Will’s hand under the covers. He squeezes tight.

“Of course.”

*

Without further discussion taking place, Hannibal and Will start preparing for their first Christmas together.

Will doesn't do much at first, but Hannibal sees him lingering on Christmas decorations at the supermarket, teetering toward the ones he likes, picking up things Hannibal does. They play a steady game of chicken, both looking, neither buying, until one day they both break rank at once: Will goes out fishing and comes home with a tree, Hannibal returns from a shopping excursion with things to decorate the house with: delicate glass baubles, glittering ribbons and several small, ceramic robins. He also buys a bag of assorted sized pine cones from a local florist, and various other trimmings for the table.

It’s still an almost reverent vigil, the two of them working together. Hannibal lets Will negotiate the erecting of the tree and lights, whilst sitting close by the fire with a collection of his own contributions.

“What’re you working on?” Will asks eventually, not without a hint of accusation: he’s sweating faintly from his efforts.

“I’m gilding pine cones,” Hannibal says simply.

“Gilding pine cones,” Will repeats, and then he shakes his head and comes over to look, watching Hannibal delicately applying gold leaf with a brush. “Right.”

“It’s something I remember my mother doing, she always made a centrepiece for the table with things from the forest around the house,” Hannibal informs him, “I used to have some of my own back in Baltimore, but, well.”

“Well,” Will agrees, plugging in the string lights and looking at the tree. Hannibal looks too, smiling at the twinkling lights. Before he can comment, Will sits down with him, hesitantly picking up one of the naked pine cones. “Can I help?”

Hannibal positively beams. “Of course.”

He shows Will the procedure, simple but fiddly, and watches Will for a moment as he hams his first attempt and then recovers more admirably for the second. He starts to laugh at himself, rolling his eyes.

“I am not very creative.”

“You’re doing splendidly,” Hannibal assures him. He starts to thread a few of the smaller pine cones he’s done already, to put on the tree.

“Thank you,” Will snorts. They continue in amicable silence for a moment, and then Will hums. “Is there anything else you remember about Christmas with your parents?”

Momentarily thrown by the question, Hannibal stalls: Will has always been careful not to ask too much about his past. Now, probably with the continued questions about his own, he seems to have decided Hannibal doesn’t get away with it that easily. Hannibal has never felt like he owed anyone the truth, or an excuse- but with Will, it’s easy to indulge him.

“I remember the house was always beautifully decorated,” he says, gingerly navigating the potholes in his mind as he feels for the door to his childhood. “My mother loved fine things, and she had good taste.”

“Sounds like you take after her,” Will murmurs. It makes Hannibal smile.

“Probably. She was more traditional than my father- we had our Christmas dinners on the last day of advent, and they were always without meat.”

Will graciously does not comment on that. Hannibal rifles for anything else he might remember. He thinks of Mischa, and suddenly finds he must close the door.

“I have a couple of traditions I’ve kept up, but most I’ve discarded,” he admits, “it seemed too kitsch to continue as an adult- pointless with no-one to share it with.”

“You are not traditional and never have been,” Will observes, “and I can’t imagine a debonair count in Baltimore was ever lacking in offers of company at Christmas- so the ‘no-one’ must be a choice.”

Hannibal shrugs slightly. Will’s expression clarifies with realisation.

“No-one worth sharing it with.”

“I always preferred my solitude, for the most part. Until recently.”

Will goes back to dusting gold onto the pine cone in his hand, and eventually sighs.

“Me too,” he murmurs.

*

The decorations are completed over a series of days, and by the time Christmas Eve rolls around, Will seems to have become softer, and brighter, in a way Hannibal just can’t explain. When he wakes up, he looks at Hannibal for a long time in a pale dawn, and when Hannibal looks back, he just smiles, and rises.

He takes Winston for a long walk in the still, white morning. Hearing a bark signalling their return, Hannibal watches Will from the window when he emerges from the forest like a hunting spirit, kicking up snow, his shoulders dusted with powder from the light fall. He stops at the shed to deposit his fishing gear, and Hannibal sees him retrieve a box too, small, pocket sized when he slips it into his jacket. Curiosity stirred, Hannibal lingers at the window a moment longer, thoughts alighting briefly on the box he’s been hiding, too, and then heads downstairs to meet him as he comes toward the house.

“Good morning,” he greets, opening up the fridge to look for something for breakfast.

“Morning,” Will says, and he presses a quick kiss to Hannibal’s cheek before he goes to the kitchen sink and turns two freshly caught perch into it, starting to wash and prepare them. Hannibal is still caught at the kiss- not the first, but certainly rare enough to warrant pause. It had been so casual, light and delicate. He watches, waiting until Will has finished, and then goes to him. An uncertainty that had been within him solidifies now into something clear and certain. His heart feels perfectly full.

“Seeing as you didn’t traditionally have meat, I thought we could have fish for dinner,” Will starts, and then stalls when Hannibal cups his face gently in his hands and kisses him again. He doesn’t tense, or pull away, but lets Hannibal kiss him soft and deep. When they part, he blinks a few times, and Hannibal watches his lashes flutter.

“My apologies, Will,” he murmurs, “you were saying.”

Will shakes his head a bit, and then smiles as he goes back to washing his hands, cheeks suspiciously pink.

“I uh, I was saying, I thought we could have fish for dinner. I’d like it if we could do Christmas dinner tonight, instead of tomorrow, it seems the thing they do over here too. I know you don’t really practise it but… I’d like us to start making new traditions together, and if you don’t mind, it seems like changing it up a little might do us both good.”

“I have already got all the ingredients for dinner, so it doesn’t matter to me whether we do it tonight.” Hannibal would be wary of Will’s motives, if he weren’t so plainly nervous of the fact: he has a much better poker face when he has an agenda. There’s no game afoot here. “In fact, I think it would be nice.”

“Good,” Will murmurs, and then he nods again, more enthusiastically, drying his hands. “Good.”

“Shall we cook together?” Hannibal asks. Will’s expression brightening is almost painfully endearing.

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I have relinquished control to you on more than one occasion, and generally been pleased with the results.”

That makes Will chuckle again, under his breath.

“Good to hear.”

He puts the fish in the fridge, then starts on making coffee. Hannibal watches him for a moment longer before starting to wash his own hands: they have prep to do.

For the most part, it’s peeling and seasoning vegetables. Will is a completely competent kitchen hand, and Hannibal suspects- behind many layers of self neglect- quite a good cook in his own right. They work companionably, and eventually break for breakfast.

“My dad used to make grits for breakfast at Christmas,” Will mumbles, watching Hannibal whisking eggs.

“Do you remember the recipe? We could make them now.”

“It’s…” Will goes unexpectedly bashful, looking down as if disappointed at himself for bringing it up, “it doesn’t matter, no, you’re cooking, I love your food.”

“Will, it is not an insult to my matter as a person if you want to cook grits. We could have them with the eggs.”

Will still looks doubtful. Even so, he moves to the fridge and starts to extract things. Hannibal retrieves polenta from the store cupboard, as of yet unopened, and Will warily takes the bag.

“They go well with sausage, too,” he comments, and Hannibal retrieves some from the fridge, as well. Will heats milk, butter, cream and other ingredients on the stove, looking uncomfortable to be there. He adds seasoning, and eventually the grain, and stirs, all the while lost in thought. Hannibal is lost watching him, cooking beside him, unsure when he will be allowed back into whatever mental conversation Will is having with himself.

“I wanted Christmas to be about us, and about you,” Will says then, apologetically, “I feel like I always manage to ruin it.”

“Nothing is ruined. Are you really so concerned I’ll hate your grits?”

Levity isn’t always the way to deal with this side of Will- but that softness Hannibal saw earlier is still hovering under the stormy grey of his eyes, and he smiles despite himself.

“You don’t strike me as a grits kind of guy.”

“And you don’t strike me as a man who gilds pine cones to please your punctilious partner, but here we are.” He gestures to the table, where the centrepiece Hannibal has painstakingly put together sits, a glimmering display of ferns, acorns, berries and dried flowers. Will stutters a bit. Hannibal imagines it is over the word ‘partner’, and he’s creased with fondness again.

“I like them,” Will says, “I- I like that we made something together, like you and your mom did.”

“And now you and I are making breakfast the way you and your father used to. Sharing traditions is part of being a family, Will. I don’t expect you to bury your past.”

Will doesn’t reply, but he does lean into Hannibal as he stirs his pan, the mixture thickening as it cooks. He turns down the heat and adds cheese, and Hannibal pours his egg mixture over the sausages with thyme and lets it set for a few minutes before carrying the pan to the counter to dish up. He dishes up the grits, too, and Will pours coffee and helps him carry the plates to the table. Winston arrives beside them, scenting opportunity, and Hannibal pretends not to notice Will feed him a bit of his sausage. They smile at one another as they eat, the morning light making the centrepiece glow on the table.

“It’s delicious,” Hannibal comments, eating with his usual enthusiasm. Will gives him a knowing look, but smiles even so.

*

When dinner prep is complete and the dishes from breakfast are away, Hannibal settles down with his book on the sofa and watches Will build a fire. He lights the candles Hannibal has stationed amongst the ferns on the mantelpiece, too, and the pine cones scattered amongst them sparkle in the light.

Without a word, Will comes to sit beside him, bringing him a fresh cup of coffee. He reads his own book, their knees just touching in the position they’re sat in, angled toward one another. The room smells of smoked wood, pine, and coffee. Outside, more snow is falling, filling in the footprints Will and Winston left behind before. Hannibal breathes everything in.

“I got you a present,” Will says suddenly, eyes still on his book. Hannibal looks up, raising his eyebrows in his best impersonation of surprised.

“You didn’t have to do that, Will.”

“Save it, I know you got me one too.”

“Just a token of my affection,” Hannibal smiles, endlessly pleased by the curl of Will’s mouth.

He watches Will take the flat box out of his pocket and slide it across the sofa, and he wonders how long it took him to pluck up the courage to do so. Hannibal has been trying to pluck up the courage all day to do the same, an alien feeling to him.

“It’s- I just saw it and thought of you,” Will murmurs, when Hannibal picks it up. It’s not wrapped, but the box itself is of aged, worn velvet, bald in some spots.

“From the antique dealer?” Hannibal asks, already flattered: Will had seemed freaked out at even visiting there in the first place, for obvious reasons, and to know he went back is a special sort of shine on Hannibal’s confidence.

“Just open it,” Will nudges. Hannibal complies, unwrapping the silk inside, pausing when a smooth carved handle meets his palm, wood warm. It’s a fine, craftsman made pocket knife, elegant in its execution, with ornate carving on the handle and gold detail. When Hannibal flicks the blade out, it shines, and there’s an engraving on the steel- a tiny, detailed pair of antlers. It feels as at home in his palm as any knife ever has.

“It’s an antique,” Will offers, “it’s sharp as anything, I don’t know- I just thought you might like it.”

“I do like it,” Hannibal murmurs, and it’s a severe stretch on his self-restraint not to hover too closely on the way he feels right now, savagely delighted, boundlessly grateful. The knife isn’t just a gift, it’s a blessing. Hannibal knows it in the way Will watches him now, eyes keen. “It’s perfect.”

“I’m glad,” Will says. He smiles a bit at his cup. Hannibal brushes his thumb against the blade; tests the edge on a thumb nail and smiles when it peels off a hairline strip like butter. Then, he folds it, and puts it in his pocket. Will sees, and then he knows, and his smile grows wider.

“Let me get your gift,” Hannibal says briskly. He gets up, feeling the comfortable weight of the knife in his pocket as if it had always been. He retrieves Will’s gift from the closet under the stairs, a considerably larger box, ornately decorated as one might expect.

“Way to make me feel inadequate,” Will laughs, when Hannibal hands it over and stands, waiting for him to open it. He lifts the lid carefully, starting to brush aside the shredded gold threads inside. “Thank you so much, you didn’t have to-”

He goes still at the sight of the smaller box inside. Hannibal watches him, frozen, and when Will’s eyes flick up to his, he reaches into the box and removes it himself.

“I had thought about waiting, but I think you and I have waited long enough,” Hannibal tells him, opening the little box and presenting the contents to Will with a flourish. Will’s mouth opens, and he stares for a moment, first at the ring, and then at Hannibal.

“Hannibal?” He says, his voice gone shot. His face is full of questions.

“Will it help if I get down on one knee?” Hannibal asks. When he’s answered with silence, he sinks down gracefully, eyes on Will the whole time. Tentatively, Will reaches out, and lifts the ring from the box. He turns it in the light, flawless white gold, plain as Will could ever ask.

“I wanted to get it inscribed,” Hannibal explains, “but I didn’t want it to be traced in any way- and besides that, words cannot do justice to what you mean to me.”

He takes the ring off Will gently, holding it up. Still visibly stumped, Will proffers his hand dumbly, letting Hannibal slide it on.

“Now I really do feel inadequate,” he mutters, cheeks rapidly colouring. “Hannibal, this is…”

“A bad gift?” Hannibal tilts his head. Will laughs and shakes his head.

“No- no. It’s. No, it’s good. It’s perfect.”

“Good,” Hannibal says, “because you were right: I never want to share you with anyone else.”

Will looks at the ring shining on his finger, and then he leans forward, cupping Hannibal’s face with shaking hands.

“You never will,” he promises, softly. Their lips brush, and Hannibal lets himself be kissed, and kissed.

*

They make a Bûche de Noël together in the afternoon, or more accurately, Will makes it, following Hannibal’s instructions closely, while Hannibal forms tiny flora and fauna with marzipan. Will seems quietly dazed the entire time, but whenever Hannibal glances at him, he’s smiling.

“That looks good, you can add the chocolate now,” he tells Will, watching him beating ingredients in a bowl. While he does so, Hannibal starts to paint details onto some toadstools with food colouring and a fine brush.

“Were you always so artistic? It feels like everything you do is just… perfect,” Will mumbles.

“When I lived with my aunt and uncle, their life was beautiful. My uncle was an artist, and my aunt, I felt, was an artist in her own way too. She was forever painting and creating flower displays, she played piano, and the koto. Every moment with her had its ritual. I found the rhythm of it to be immensely pleasing, the predictability. The loss of it, to me, was unbearable. Life is so full of ugliness. What I can make beautiful, I will.”

“My life felt ugly for so long,” Will murmurs, starting to fold egg whites into his batter. “Everything you’ve done since then- even the horrifying things… they’re still brighter in my mind than anything else. Maybe that’s how I ended up here, I don’t know.”

“Some people are born with taste, Will,” Hannibal tells him, “they just don’t always know it.”

Will glances at the ring on his finger, and huffs a laugh.

“Not sure I’m one of your finest acquisitions, Hannibal, but I’m certainly levelling up.”

“Nonsense.” Chuckling, Hannibal wraps an arm around Will briefly, and moves off to put his decorations away to dry.

When the sponge is cooling, Hannibal has moved on to cooking dinner while Will whips up ganache and cream for dessert, along with various sides. As there’s no meat to roast, pulling things together is a fairly brief operation, and Hannibal has most of the dishes nearly done when Will finally turns to him.

“You want a glass of wine?” He asks Hannibal, drying his hands on a cloth.

“Please,” Hannibal smiles, “actually let me- will you stir? I want to set the table.”

“Of course.” Will obliges, copying Hannibal’s movements perfectly. It becomes another moment where he takes on Hannibal’s body language completely unconsciously, mimicking his movements; the syntax of his speech. As with every time, Hannibal finds himself delighted and unnerved by it in equal measures.

Instead of wine, Hannibal opts for champagne.

“Our first Christmas together deserves a touch of luxury,” he tells Will, presenting him with a glass.

“Sure, the gold leaf forest in our living room wasn’t enough,” Will chuckles, but he takes a sip anyway after gently chinking their glasses.

Hannibal sips his own, then goes to set the table, watching Will all the while.

“Not long now,” Will comments, looking into his pan.

“No, not long. I’ll come help you serve up in a second.”

He’s lighting candles when Will starts to bring over dishes of roasted vegetables and sauces. He pauses at the lip of the table, eyes travelling over the place settings, and Hannibal waits.

“Is someone joining us?” Will asks, eyes going wary as he counts the place settings over and over. One, two, three, four.

“My mother observed a Lithuanian tradition of setting a place for beloved family members unable to join us on Christmas Eve,” Hannibal explains, polishing the last dessert spoon and setting it down. He watches Will’s expression shift, first relief and then a minute flash of longing.

“For Abigail,” he murmurs, “and Mischa?”

Hannibal nods. Without another word, Will sets down the dishes he’s holding, and moves toward Hannibal, leaning into his waiting arms without his usual hesitance. The embrace is carefully sweet, and when Will pulls away, his ears are pink.

“Let’s eat,” he says, with a forced but genuine brightness. Hannibal follows him to help carry the rest of the plates. They sit down then, and Hannibal tops up their glasses, raising his in a toast.

“Merry Christmas, Will,” he murmurs, “here’s to many more together.”

“Merry Christmas,” Will says. He reaches over the table for Hannibal’s hand, ring catching the light. When Hannibal takes it, he feels warm all over, content to his very bones.


End file.
